


Not a Perfect Fit

by Goldy



Series: Better With Four [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn’t think she’s ever been quite so selfish before. She can’t possibly understand what she’s asking him to do—just how much this will cost him. But they both know that he would do anything she asked. He’s proven that plenty of times before.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Perfect Fit

**Title** : Not a Perfect Fit  
 **Characters/Pairing** : Ten, Rose; Ten/Rose, Ten II/Rose.  
 **Summary** : _He doesn’t think she’s ever been quite so selfish before. She can’t possibly understand what she’s asking him to do—just how much this will cost him. But they both know that he would do anything she asked. He’s proven that plenty of times before._  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Spoilers** : 4x13  
 **Word Count** : 1,000  
 **A/N** : Set in the same universe as [Better With Four](http://community.livejournal.com/teawiles/21624.html), a Journey’s End AU where Rose travels with both Doctors and Donna. This isn’t exactly a happily-ever-after fic. I blame exam anxiety.

He watches the scene before him in a haze, standing off to one side, detached from the rest of them; Donna, crying against his other self’s shoulder, Rose, stroking her hair, Wilfred, pale and still on the bed, his gasping breaths the only indication that he’s still alive.

He turns without a word, strides back into the TARDIS and shuts the door without anyone noticing. He moves to the console, pulls up on a lever, dials a knob, and sets a course before he’s even fully aware of it.

It’s never been clearer to him—this inescapable fact that Rose and his other self are growing older. He’s never felt so Time Lord before or so very, very old.

They lag behind him now, complaining of sore muscles and creaky knees. Rose needs to put on glasses when she reads. They tease each other about grey hairs and wrinkles, make a pot of tea before bed and joke about voting Conservative. The other him makes Rose laugh more than he does, like his human self is the slightly eccentric time traveling goofball, and he’s the serious one, the one who worries about the universe in peril and the dangers of paradoxes and time travel.

He flips another switch, hands shaking with a mix of anticipation and terror. He’ll come back for Donna. Eventually. After Wilfred is gone for good. Donna doesn’t need him, after all—she has the other him. She’ll be fine.

He pauses before dematerializing, just for a second, guilt and shame making his hands freeze on the console.

That’s when Rose finds him.

He hears the door squeak open before he sees her, and he looks up slowly, reluctantly, all ready dreading the disappointment and hurt he’ll see on her face. He swallows when he meets her gaze, the shame in his stomach tightening into a sharp knot. He breathes out, entire body deflating and then he steps back from the console, hands going into his pockets.

She stares at him silently and then reaches behind her to shut the door. He catches a glimpse of his other self still holding Donna, but the door shuts and she’s gone. It’s just him and Rose, then.

 _As it should be_ , he thinks, and it stings—sharp shards of resentment against his other self for daring to come into being, for daring to love Rose like he does and growing closer to her because he doesn’t have to live with the knowledge that he’ll have to lose her and live on one day.

“I thought you might try something like this,” Rose says. “I hoped you wouldn’t, but…”

He says nothing. He looks away, jaw tightening.

She closes the distance between them, one of her hands reaching out to trail along the console as she passes it, a gesture so familiar and unconscious that he feels a stinging in his eyes.

“Doctor,” she says, inches from him now. Her voice is soft and gentle, not at all reproachful, and he can’t quite hold onto his resentment. She reaches for him, draws his hand out of his pocket and then threads her fingers through his. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, voice sounding sharp—like pieces of broken glass.

She studies him with her brow furrowed, looking like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Do you know…” she begins, “I used to wish… _still_ wish… that I really could be with you forever, never dying. Like Jack.”

“Rose,” he says, voice holding a warning. She has _no idea_ , and he wouldn’t want that for her, ever. “Don’t say that.”

She shrugs. “Can’t help it.”

A sudden rush of yearning hits him, and he can’t completely ignore the image of Rose by his side, fingers laced through his until the end of time. _No_ , he reminds himself. _No_.

“Rose, you’re human,” he says simply. “That isn’t going to change. What happened to Jack was wrong.”

“Yeah,” Rose says vaguely, like she isn’t sure whether or not she believes him. Then she shakes her head. “It’s not fair to you, Doctor, watching the two of us get older… it’s just not fair.”

 _That’s why I’ve got to go_ , he thinks, and hopes that she’ll understand, that she’ll turn around and go back to Donna and the other him. He thinks about Rose ending up like Wilfred one day—bedridden and dependent on machines to keep her alive. He’ll never be prepared to watch that happen.

She draws in a breath. “Don’t leave.”

He looks up at her, surprised by the naked plea in her voice. “Rose—”

Her fingers tighten through his, pads of her fingers pressing against his knuckles. Her face is pale and there’s a desperate waiver in her voice when she says, “Don’t leave, Doctor. Just… don’t.”

He stares at her, silent. He doesn’t think she’s ever been quite so selfish before. She can’t possibly understand what she’s asking him to do—just how much this will cost him. But they both know that he would do anything she asked. He’s proven that plenty of times before.

He nods, not trusting his voice. And then, “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah. Of course I won’t.”

She takes a deep breath, colour beginning to come back to her cheeks. “Okay.” She nods and squeezes his hand. “Good.”

He feels a flood of relief—so powerful that he almost can’t stay standing. He doesn’t have to give her up. Not quite yet. He pulls her into his arms and if he leans into her more than he usually does, she doesn’t comment.

Her arms wrap around him and she presses her cheek to his. He can feel the soft brush of her eyelids as they flutter shut and she lets out a soft sigh, warm breath rustling against his neck.

He can see her timeline—hers and his other self’s—twisting and mingling together, heading someplace he can’t ever follow. But he closes his eyes and pushes it away—the incessant, unrelenting _Time Lordness_ of it all. He lets himself just be. Here and now. Her, in his arms. And she has many, many years left. That’s enough. 


End file.
